Maybe Cuddy's Baby Daddy
by chilibreath
Summary: Cuddy has given House a job to do to make him focus on something other than the increasing pain. See what he's capable of. CHAPTER 2 is up! Beware the silly!
1. Chapter 1

**Another collaborative effort between _moi_ and Mrs.House from the DtH forums!**

**Disclaimer: I don't own House, MD---but wouldn't it be nice if I did?**

**-**

**Maybe Cuddy's Baby Daddy**

"Find me sperm who can beat up 613's kids!" Dr. Lisa Cuddy snapped as she dumped several file folders down his lap.

Dr. Gregory House winced as three thick folders made contact with his lap. The impact of the paperwork slightly intensified the worsening pain in his thigh, which has just recently become a bit resistant to his daily regimen of Vicodin.

"What am I, your man-pimp?" House muttered as Cuddy slammed her office door behind her. He made a mental note to "suggest" to Cuddy's face about the benefits of stud service—satisfaction both ways, straight from the source.

In the meantime, he had to see a moron about a teenage con artist—he'll look at the files later.

House has unbelievable powers of persuasion, coercion, and whatever else he had hidden up his sleeve. After the "interview" held in Cuddy's office with Mozart 613, he told her to choose someone she knows.

"Someone like you?" Cuddy asked in surprise.

House paused at that.

"No," he said. "Someone you trust."

House figured out how to find the man behind the sperm donor file 613, even went so far as to pose as a sperm donor himself in order to sneak into the fertility clinic's computer mainframe and hack for information. The thrill of the sneaky gives him a sense of high that superceded the pain in his leg, a kind of "drug" that has more benefits than Vicodin or morphine. Cuddy unconsciously gave him three more reasons to go back, and thus, three more reasons to make sure she doesn't get more loser donors. He hoped that the morphine would show up in his "little buddies", preventing an onslaught of little Houses that would surprise him on his doorstep or (God forbid) the free clinic one day…

_Two days later…_

James Wilson was surprised at the phone call he received at his new digs. Knowing House, Wilson mentally prepared himself for—whatever the hell it was that House planned for today.

"…looking for a new flat-warming gift," Wilson muttered to himself as he scanned both sides of the street for a red Corvette. "What a load of bull!"

However, he thought it was the better option than letting House have free rein. When he married Julie, House's wedding present was a barrel man knick knack from some province in the Philippines…

_"In anticipation for the honeymoon" the note enclosed in the box said. Wilson opened the box and extracted a 5-inch tall wooden naked man standing on a pedestal and wearing a barrel. He didn't think much of it—he placed it on the coffee table and went upstairs to take a shower—until he heard Julie's shriek of outrage and horror (unusual mix). Wilson, fearing the worst and covered in shampoo, jumped out of the shower and ran downstairs in his birthday suit._

_"Julie, what the hell happened!" he yelled._

_"House sent _that_, didn't he?" she screeched as she pointed to the object of her indignation. Confused, Wilson bent down and picked up the barrel man, nodding mutely in answer to her question, then shrugging his bare, shampoo-sudded shoulders at her._

_"Lift—the—barrel—James."_

_Wilson looked at the figurine as reality dawned, knowing what was "coming up" when he lifted the barrel from the—_

"Well, if that's your way of expressing gratitude, Wilson, then no wonder you can't stay married to one woman," House said from behind him, eliciting a small squeak of surprise and a hop from the normally reserved Wilson. When he managed to compose himself and turned to glare at his friend, House was wearing a look of wide, blue-eyed innocence, his lanky frame leaning casually on his cane.

"New cane, House?" Wilson quipped, hoping to get even a bit. House gave him an owlish look.

"Why, yes, Dr. Wilson! Funny you noticed it—did you get the bill for it?" House quipped back.

Wilson grimaced—he did. Stupid of him to hope that House would forget about it, but _nooo_...

"So, House," Wilson said as he looked behind his friend at the Corvette, parked slightly out-of-place from the curb, "where are we going? I'll promise not to hurt your new cane if you'll let me drive the Corvette…"

"Oh, I bet you made that vow with all of your wives, you tease!" House interrupted with a smirk and a widening of those blue eyes. "But I need to exercise this bad leg; driving stick shift helps with the healing! Surely you won't take this opportunity for physical therapy driving away from me? What will the bald-headed Munchkins think?"

Wilson just rolled his eyes at that as he followed House to the car.

"Sweeney's Upholstered Paradise," Wilson murmured as he read the sign in front of the store, a look of horror fermenting on his chiseled, handsome face. "Gee, House—always thought your furniture came from Ikea or another store with a better-sounding name—like 'Knick Knacks for the Limping Twerps'."

"You and your hoity-toity oncologist's tastes," House fake-sneered as he parked the Corvette in the parking lot next to a squat, gray building—House's parking technique took up a fair amount of space from the neighboring slot. As Wilson got out, the oncologist was suddenly reminded of Boris Karloff's portrayal of The Monster in "Frankenstein", with the big protruding forehead, as his chocolate brown eyes squinted at the building.

"Geez, man, where'd you find this megastructure?" Wilson asked, revulsion and fascination lacing the undertones of his voice. "_Ripley's Believe it or Not_!"

"Internet," House replied offhandedly. Inwardly, he shared Wilson's sentiments—the place looked like, for some reason, it was forever stuck in an 80's time loop—the BAD FASHION SENSE part of the 80's. Wham! meets Culture Club and partied hard with Ferris Beuller. Good God.

Understandably, the store looked abandoned, and if House hadn't personally called up to inquire for directions, he'd gladly give Wilson his sofa—the one he peed on some months ago—to save face.

Surprisingly, when they entered the store, there were a few people browsing about, and the items on sale looked quite respectable and designed in the new millennium. Judging by the look on Wilson's face, House could tell that his friend found something (or things) that took his fancy.

_Phase one complete—phase two: find the target_. _Search, interrogate and destroy, if necessary_.

"The place looks big, Wilson," House muttered, delivering a steely blue scan around the area. "Divide and window shop for a knick knack."

"Sure thing," Wilson said softly, fixated on a spot on the far right corner of the establishment where the TV and home entertainment system were displayed. "See you back at the cashier!" he said, patting House's arm unconsciously before walking over to the display.

The moment Wilson was out of earshot, House continued his visual search, popping in a Vicodin without breaking his concentration until he found his quarry over at the section where they displayed chairs and sofas.

_Move 'em out_!

Next chapter: Sperm donor #286


	2. Woody Fisher

_Sorry for the delay. I was overcome with a case of selective writer's block!_

_For **maritahouse**---come back to us, _mon ami

_

* * *

_

_Hello, my name is _**Woody Fisher**.

House cringed at the name tag. He could already visualize this man's kids getting the "swirly" in day care—and that was just after he took a good look at sperm donor number 289.

The man bouncing on his heels to his direction is short—House estimated that 289's height is five foot _nothing_. The height was compensated by good looks, House would give him that much, but the smile aimed at him made him feel like the little man was going to bite him any second now. Was it company policy to smile like Jim Carrey in _Ace Ventura: Pet Detective_?

"Hiandgoodmorning!" the man called out with machine-gun rapidity. "Welcome to Sweeney's! In the market for a sofa? Well you've come to the right place!"

"Yeah, kinda—" House began, but the little man continued like House didn't make a peep.

"Well, you've come to the right place and to the right guy, yessiree!" he spewed—fine specks of spit were flying right out of the man's mouth—as he gestured for House to walk ahead of him. House made a big show of extracting a large handkerchief from his pocket and wiping his face to remove the spit that wasn't there. Not surprisingly, Woody Fisher didn't notice the hidden sarcasm of the gesture.

Woody led House to a handsome, chestnut-colored leather sofa.

"This, sir," Woody began in a well-practiced TV shopping network kind of voice, "just came in from the manufacturer today. Feel the leather—there ya go!—have you ever touched such buttery-soft leather? This is guaranteed to last a long, long time! You can the let kiddies of all shapes and sizes jump on it—it'll bounce 'em like they're on a trampoline, see?"

With that, the little salesman suddenly jumped on the sofa and bounced on it for half a minute. House wondered what kind of "pick-me-up" Woody took before he came in to report for work.

"I don't have kids, Noogie," House called out to the salesman.

"It's Woody, sir!" he piped back as he jumped down from the sofa. He wasn't even out of breath. "Notice that even after I jumped the hell out of it, it fluffs back to normal!"

House snorted inwardly.

"Fine, how much are you selling this overstuffed, _fluffy_ trampoline?" House asked. He'd had enough—the annoying pitch of the little man's voice was getting on his nerves—and he popped in a couple of Vicodin to ease both his nerves and the pain in his leg.

House tilted his head back in order to swallow the pills dry. When he cocked his head back, he narrowed his blue gaze on the frozen expression on Woody's face.

"What?!" House barked irritably.

The short salesman made some circular motions in the air, as though he was trying to physically roll up some nerve out of the suffocating atmosphere of Sweeney's Upholstered Paradise. He looked at House's face, then at the bottle of Vicodin—which House pocketed back into his jacket—before lowering his gaze to House's bum leg.

"Ah—pardon me for saying this, sir, but I couldn't help noticing your leg and that you popped two pills in your mouth," Woody said softly. He just used a tone reserved by waiters in fancy restaurants when a particularly irritating patron was making a scene in the establishment.

"My, what sharp eyes you have, Doogie!" House trilled in a sharply sarcastic tone. Heads began to turn.

"Well," Woody continued, oblivious to House's sarcasm, "it seems to me like you are in need of _intervention_." Woody emphasized the last word by raising his hands and making the universal gesture for quotation marks.

"Doogie, it's none of your business, but I don't need _intervention_, I need relief from pain," House caustically replied, bending over and locking his cyan eyes with doe-brown eyes of the much shorter man. "The pills I popped are, unlike you, doing the job just fine. Thanks for nothing."

House straightened up and turned to go. He barely raised his good leg forward when the salesman suddenly grabbed him by the elbow of his jacket.

* * *

Wilson was inspecting an LG television showcase when a yowl of pain in the opposite end of the store shocked him out of his reverie. The saleswoman who stood next to him disappeared as she ran towards the source of the yelp as best as her two-inch heels were able to let her.

He turned around, looking at the direction of the commotion.

"Now what, House?" Wilson groaned.

* * *

_Forty minutes later…_

Wilson became the less-than proud owner of a handsome, chestnut-colored leather sofa, courtesy of Dr. Gregory House, whose silence in the entire fiasco was bought with a 75 per cent discount on the sofa's price bestowed upon him by the apologetic owner of the furniture store, Bartholomew S. Sweeney.

Wilson personally inspected the sofa's seat, making sure that the jagged, 6-inch rip on it was nicely sewn up before the moving men hauled it up into their truck.

In the background, House did his very best to look the part of the thoroughly insulted customer as Bartholomew S. Sweeney raged at his manic, obsessive-compulsive employee.

"I'M TAKING THE PRICE CUT OUT OF YOUR SALARY, FISHER!" Sweeney boomed in an impressive baritone, making Woody shake in his faux-snakeskin shoes. "THANK YOUR CRAZY VOODOO, HOODOO STARS DR. HOUSE ISN'T GOING TO SUE US FOR ATTACKING HIM!!!"

"But sir," piped Woody in a pitiful whine, "he's an addict! He needs _intervention_—he has to be shown that _drugs are not the answer_!"

House's cerulean eyes widened in pretend outrage.

"An addict—_me_?" he butted in with a convincing degree of outrage. "I think someone's been snorting way too much leather polish—I'm not the one who tackled a disabled customer on a product in a desperate attempt to lure him to the Dark Side!"

"It's not the Dark Side!" Woody snapped. "It's a religious organization established to help people live better lives!"

"ENOUGH!!!" Sweeney screeched.

Eventually, House and Wilson left Sweeney's Upholstered Emporium. When they reached the Corvette, House looked at his friend over the roof of the car and stared straight into the younger man's dark brown eyes.

Wilson managed to keep a straight face for about ten seconds before he finally gave in and burst into a fit of mad chuckling.

"I knew you enjoyed that," House murmured before he opened the vehicle and awkwardly let himself in.

* * *

_And the next contestant is...TBC!_


End file.
